


the loneliest number

by robokittens



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Background Bill Tench/Nancy Tench, Background Holden Ford/Debbie Mitford, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sharing a Bed, early season one, holden get urself together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 21:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16104029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: "I'll sleep in the …" Bill trails off. Holden watches as his eyes track around the room, linger just briefly on the chair Holden occupies, fix on the door to the bathroom. "Car," he says finally.Holden frowns."Come on now," he says. "That won't be comfortable."





	the loneliest number

**Author's Note:**

> this one goes out to tbsu ❤ and, as per usual for a new fandom, especially to reserve
> 
> wasn't sure how to tag this properly, but please be aware the holden/bill in this is fairly one-sided. (or is it? dun dun dunnn)

"Ah, shit," Bill says. He's a silhouette in the door of the motel room. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"What's that?"

Holden's just enough steps behind him, weighed down by his briefcase and his suitcase and the recording equipment, that it takes a moment for him to catch up. To see what Bill's seeing, when Holden peers over his shoulder.

It's another shitty motel room: wallpaper faded, peeling at the corners, pattern a few decades out of date; carpet an indeterminate color, worn by hundreds of feet. A desk shoved against a wall. An armchair that looks more comfortable than it inevitably will be. Door to the bathroom. Bedside table: one drawer (slightly ajar, probably home to a recent-ish Yellow Pages and an older Bible), a lamp, an alarm clock, an ashtray.

And a bed.

One bed.

"Oh," Holden says, belatedly.

Bill echoes him, mocking: " _Oh_."

"Do we have the right room?"

He's close enough to Bill that when Bill holds aloft the motel key he can see the _412_ that's printed on the key fob. It matches the number on the door.

"It unlocks," Bill says, unnecessarily. And then, again: "Shit. Okay. I'll go back down to the front desk, see if I can't get this straightened out. You wanna wait here?"

Holden shrugs: it's an expression of indifference but also shifting the weight of the tape deck on his shoulder.

"Sure," he says.

Bill doesn't move straight away, so Holden shoulders past him to put his stuff down. After a moment, Bill drops his suitcase, too.

He sighs gruffly. Holden can sympathize. It's getting late; he's sure Bill was just as much looking forward to a shower and falling into bed as Holden was himself.

It's tempting to take that shower while Bill's down at the desk, wrong room be damned. Equally tempting to find the flask he knows Bill's got packed in his suitcase. Holden eyes his own luggage as he eases himself down into the — yep — uncomfortable arm chair: he could take another look through the files Officer Reese passed him, another off-the-books consult for another small town PD, or read over his own work, or —

He groans, tips his head back and lets his eyes slip shut.

He stays like that until he hears the key in the lock; he's sitting up, wide eyed, at attention when Bill comes in. 

"Fucking," Bill says. He's emphasizing all his consonants. " _Fuck_."

Holden raises an eyebrow.

"They're not even fully booked, can you believe it? The kid running the desk just — 'doesn't have the authority'. The authority! To give me a new goddamn room key? How do you have someone running the desk who can't actually book someone a room?"

"Probably not too many people trying to get a room here this time of night." Holden's matter of fact about it; he's not trying to talk Bill down, which is for the best, since if he was he's failing miserably. Bill scowls at him.

It's true, though; this isn't one of those side of the highway places, and it's not like this town has a nightlife going for it — the bar the cops took them to shooed everyone out the door before it even hit eleven.

"Did you flash your badge at him?" Holden asks. He's half joking, half curious. Bill doesn't reply, just scowls deeper.

They stay like that for a minute, a standoff. Bill glares; Holden's not pleased by the situation either, but he can't help the hint of a smirk that makes its way across his lips, just from the sight of Bill all … disgruntled.

"I'll sleep in the …" Bill trails off. Holden watches as his eyes track around the room, linger just briefly on the chair Holden occupies, fix on the door to the bathroom. "Car," he says finally.

Holden frowns.

"Come on now," he says. "That won't be comfortable."

"Neither will the floor," Bill says. "And I'm too old to be sleeping in bathtubs." He groans, suddenly, realizing: "I wonder if that goddamn kid has the _authority_ to get me an extra blanket."

"We can just share the bed," Holden offers. "I don't kick, and you snore worse than I do."

"I don't snore," Bill protests automatically. He does; a second bed in the room has never done a damn thing to protect Holden from Bill's middle of the night hacksaw breathing.

"It's a big enough bed," Holden says. "I promise to stay on my side if you stay on yours."

Bill just stares at him, doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then he sighs, heavy, and shrugs his jacket off, letting it fall to the floor.

"I'm taking a shower," he says. "If you're sprawled all over the bed when I get out, I'm making _you_ sleep in the car."

Holden pretends to think it over. He lets his gaze fall on the bed, the stiff pillows, the starched sheets. "Deal," he says finally. That same smirk is still tugging at his mouth, and he finally lets it out when Bill rolls his eyes at him.

He turns down the bed while Bill's in the shower, unpacks his pajamas and re-folds them onto the foot of the bed. Kicks off his shoes, a little belatedly, settles them neatly by the door and hangs up his jacket. He's just unbuttoning his shirt when the bathroom door slams open.

Bill is a little red-faced from the shower, barefoot, dressed in his own undershirt and sleep pants. "Not bad water pressure," he says.

"Hope you didn't use all the hot water," Holden says. Bill just levels him with an unimpressed look.

Bill was right, Holden realizes quickly: this _is_ good water pressure, for a motel. Not that Holden really takes the time to appreciate it; he hadn't realized how tired he was until he got in the shower, not really, but now that the water's dripping into his eyes all he wants to do is keep them shut.

So he scrubs himself down perfunctorily, dries himself off just as efficiently, slips on his pajamas.

Now that the shower's off, he can hear Bill's voice. He opens the door to see Bill sitting at the desk, curled over the telephone. His voice is low, but audible.

"Hey," he says. "Hang on. Just a — sorry, hang on." He looks up at Holden. "Sorry," he says again, to Holden this time. "I'm just gonna —"

"Of course," Holden says. "Tell Nancy I say hi. You won't keep me up. Mind if I turn off the light?"

The smile Bill gives him is brief but genuine; Holden construes his hand gesture to mean he doesn't mind about the light. Holden cracks the curtains, just slightly, before he flips the switch; the thin seam of light hits the bed more than it illuminates the desk, but still. 

Bill's voice is soft in the dark, oddly comforting as Holden eases himself into the bed, between the sheets. Some nights it all keeps him up, but his eyes are shut even before he's laying all the way down. He lets sleep take him.

 

—

 

Holden's not sure what wakes him up. 

He'd stirred briefly when Bill had climbed into bed, just enough to register what was going on; he hadn't even opened his eyes. He's pretty sure Bill said goodnight, thinks he might have mumbled something in response.

But Holden had been right: the bed was pretty big, and it fit the two of them easy. He could feel the heat of another body in bed with him, but they weren't touching.

 _Weren't_. Hadn't been. Past tense.

That can't be what woke him, though. If it was, he'd have woken up when Bill first shifted toward him, would have woken up at the first hot breath on the back of his neck.

But he hadn't. Asleep, he'd let it happen. Let Bill wrap an arm around him, pull him close. Bill's face nuzzled into the back of Holden's neck. Their knees tucked up against each other.

Holden's still half asleep; too tired to panic, but not to analyze. Bill's married, of course, shares a bed with his wife and has for years. It's nice, actually, objectively: the knowledge that Bill, instinctively, holds her. His touch is casual, comfortable, not possessive.

And Holden is … comfortable. Too comfortable, maybe. Debbie isn't much for spooning, and she's certainly never the big spoon. Bill isn't as big as — as some people. But he's bigger than Debbie, that's for sure. He's bigger than Holden. There's something nice about it, being held like this.

Slowly, he comes awake.

Not all the way, but just enough. He's facing toward the window, away from the nightstand and the dull red glow of the alarm clock. So he's not sure what time it is, but early, for sure: the light creeping in through the curtains is dim, hazy, but Holden's pretty sure it's sunlight and not street lights. 

Just past dawn, then, probably. That's not a bad amount of sleep, these days.

His eyes drift shut again and without really meaning to he presses back against Bill. The arm draped across his chest tightens, and Bill makes a soft, low sound up against Holden's neck. Holden shivers.

He's hard, he realizes suddenly. Not Bill — or he doesn't think so, anyway; Holden's never been in a situation where he had some other guy's hard dick pressed up against him, but he's pretty sure he'd be able to tell.

But Holden is. Hard. Aroused. He's cuddled up with his very male partner in bed and he's got a goddamn boner. He likes being the little spoon, apparently. He wonders what Debbie would have to say about that.

He weighs his options. He can ignore it, obviously; maybe he can go back to sleep. He can get out of bed, go take care of himself in the bathroom — more logistically difficult, just because he doesn't want to wake Bill. If Bill wakes up, realizes what he's doing, while _Holden_ is awake … they're gonna have to talk about this.

And Holden doesn't want his apologies. Doesn't want to be brushed off, either. He's not sure if Bill's going to be angry or embarrassed — maybe both? — but he'd rather Bill deal with it on his own while he thinks Holden's asleep.

Avoidant maybe, sure. But there's a part of Holden that likes the idea of them being each other's dirty little secret. Secret even from each other; God knows he doesn't intend to tell Bill that he likes it when —

Or. Third option.

Bill's arm over his chest is holding him pretty tight. There's not a ton of room to manoeuvre, not pressed all up against the hard plains of Bill's chest like this, but if Holden moves just right …

Bill mumbles again, sleepily, into Holden's neck. Holden freezes, but Bill's breathing stays even.

Slowly, slowly, Holden works his hand inside his sleep pants.

He nearly groans at the first hesitant touch of his hand on his dick, but he bites it back. He hasn't jerked off a lot lately: kind of weird to do on the road, not that he's been in the mood much, and when he's home he's been spending a lot of time at Debbie's. So it's almost novel again, this delicate sprawl of his own fingers over his sensitive skin.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Wonders what it would be like, if Bill were hard against him — if Bill wanted this. If Bill were pulling him in tight on purpose.

He can almost hear Bill's voice low in his ear, urging him on. Encouraging the way Holden wraps his hand more firmly around himself, the friction, almost on the edge of too much, as he drags up and down his length.

This close, Bill smells like cheap motel soap and like cigarettes. It shouldn't be appealing, but as Holden takes one shaky breath after another, he can't help but wonder if Bill would taste like cigarettes, too. Cigarettes and whiskey. Bill's breathing even against Holden's shoulder and Holden wonders what it would be like to bring their lips together.

Strange, probably. 

He can't — even with the heavy fall of Bill's arm against his chest, he can't bring himself to imagine it. That Bill would —

Holden inhales sharply.

Bill twitches; if they weren't so close together, Holden wouldn't have felt anything at all. He shifts, curls in on himself just enough that he can bring his free hand up to his mouth. He breathes heavily against his own palm, bites down on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

His other hand tightens around his dick, and the sound he makes is too loud in the still of the room. Holden freezes, but Bill's breathing stays even.

After a moment, he moves again. He's gotten somehow harder; there's precome leaking from the tip of his dick. He smooths his thumb across the head, through the wetness there. 

He barely stifles another moan. The thin bit of flesh between his teeth isn't doing enough to muffle him. He shoves two of his own fingers in his mouth and regrets it right away — not because he nearly chokes himself, although it's true, but because he can't keep himself from pretending they're Bill's.

They'd be thicker, if they were Bill's. Rougher. They would taste of cigarettes, for sure; Holden's never smoked an entire cigarette, can't stand the taste, but in this context … he's pretty sure he'd like it.

He bites down on his fingers, hoping the jolt of pain will distract him. Ground him. Keep him from thinking about Bill shoving fingers down his throat.

Two things occur to him at once: What else Bill could shove down his throat, and where else Bill could shove his fingers. His hips jerk, involuntarily. His dick spits out another spurt of precome.

Debbie's talked about it — joked about it, Holden is pretty sure; he doesn't _really_ think she's interested in putting anything … inside him. But he's suddenly, blindingly curious. What it would feel like. It's a struggle, suddenly, not to shove his hips back against Bill, not to grind against him.

He cups his palm over the head of his dick and just holds himself for a moment. Takes a few deep breaths. They come out shaky.

It would _hurt_. He's sure of it. Even if he sucked on Bill's fingers first, even if they were dripping with Holden's saliva, there's no way that it wouldn't hurt when they breached him. Holden's never been touched there before. Never wanted to be. But now …

He's moving again, he realizes; not his hand but his whole body, squirming in Bill's grasp.

Bill says something, then. It's not quite a word. Holden thinks, maybe, it's his wife's name. He hisses in a breath.

For just a moment Holden thinks he can feel Bill after all, feel his hard cock pressed against him. But that's … it feels sick to call it _wishful thinking_. But this whole thing feels sick.

He should. Stop. He should stop touching himself, stop thinking about — stop _thinking_.

Bill nuzzles against the back of his neck. His breath is so warm and his voice … Holden can't understand what he's saying, but his voice is so _soft_. It's his phone voice, his Nancy voice. Holden's dick pulses in his hand. 

His jaw had gone lax around his fingers, he'd been sucking on them more than anything but now he bites down, hard. The sharp line of his teeth does nothing to muffle the whimper that escapes his mouth.

 _Bill_ , he thinks, and then frantically, _Debbie_. But there's not much point in pretending, not when all he can feel is Bill's thick arm slung across his chest, Bill's breath on his neck, Bill's knees folded against the backs of his legs. He's more aware of Bill right now than he is of the way his own hand is moving on his dick. 

Holden's never been much good at lying to himself. He tries it out loud: "Bill," he says, more exhale than word, the consonants strangled around his fingers.

Behind him, Bill shifts, presses just slightly forward; it's a small movement, but it's enough to have Holden shooting off into his own hand. He bites down on his fingers again, hard enough that he lets out a hiss of pain this time.

Slowly, he pulls his fingers out of his mouth, scraping over his teeth on the way. His eyes flutter open; the sun is definitely coming up. His own — Christ — his own come is drying in his underwear, and in the palm of his hand. There's no way he can really wipe it off cleanly, but he tries, making further mess of his underwear; there's still no way he can be sure of extricating himself from Bill's grasp without waking him.

He wonders what Bill will think. If he'll be embarrassed, waking up to find himself wrapped around Holden like this. If he'll be able to smell Holden's shame on him; if he'll be angry, furious, _violent_ —

Holden bites down on his lip, pulls his hand from his pants, shuts his eyes again. He forces himself to take one deep breath, then another. Bill's breathing is slow and even — still somehow, blessedly, deeply asleep — and Holden tries to match it.

Bill's not the violent one here, Holden knows. Bill is as regular as his breathing. It's Holden, Holden who's … who's different. Who's up to no good. Who's deviant.

His curls his knees in toward his chest. Breathes slow and deep. Slow and deep and even. Behind him, Bill sleeps on, steady.

 

—

 

Sleep is thick in Holden's eyes and in his throat as he blinks his way into awareness. He's alone in bed, but not in the room; he's sure of both of these things almost instantaneously. There's no weight in the bed other than his own, but he can hear Bill shuffling around.

He yawns, stretches ostentatiously. It does the trick, Bill turning to face him just as Holden's eyes come fully open. He's sitting at the desk, files open in front of him. 

Holden tries to read his face, see if there's anything in his eyes: anger, discomfort. Shame. But Bill just looks faintly amused.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," he says. "Lucky for you our flight isn't till the afternoon."

"Lucky me," Holden grumbles. He sits up slowly; the sheets pool around his waist, covering up the incriminating stain Holden is sure marks the front of his pants. He can still feel the echo of his own come in his palm, and he fists that hand in the sheets at his side. He's going to have to get to the bathroom without Bill looking at him.

Bill raises an eyebrow over his glasses, but he doesn't say anything else. Holden isn't quite sure how to interpret the pointed look, so he cuts his eyes away. He can hear Bill shifting in his seat as he turns back to his paperwork.

Holden manages to get to the bathroom without catching Bill's attention. Bill's packing the desk up when he gets out, sliding files into his briefcase. He inclines his head, just slightly, toward Holden.

"Get dressed," he says. "There's a diner I want to hit on the way to the airport; I need a solid breakfast to make up for not sleeping well."

Holden pauses over his suitcase, his grip tightening on the fresh shirt in his hands.

"Did you — not sleep well?" He forces it out; if it weren't for the hitch in his breath, it might even sound casual.

Bill shrugs. "Had worse. But you move around a lot, you know that?"

Holden swallows. By the time he realizes he should respond, it's too late to reply.

Bill's still looking at him, but it doesn't seem accusatory. Upset, disgusted. None of that. Holden is good at reading people; he's good at reading _Bill_ , but now …

"Sorry," he says finally. He drops his eyes, pulls his shirt over his shoulders and starts to button it up.

"I'm gonna go check out," Bill says. He huffs out an angry sort of laugh. "If there's someone at the desk who's _authorized_ to do that. Meet me at the car."

"Sure." Holden can hear the distance in his own voice. He can't get his fingers to close on the buttons, can't quite get them through the buttonholes. He stares down at himself, unblinking, for long enough for Bill to cross the room.

The door opens: sunlight spilling across the floors, spreading across the carpet and the bed and finally hitting Holden square in the face. He looks up.

Bill walks out, and the door swings shut behind him.


End file.
